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I’m a sucker for the bad boy

My grandfather: “So I hear you’re dating a black guy.”

I knew this would come up sooner or later. You would think my family would be used to my taste in men by now though. I have never been attracted to the clean-cut choir boy type, much to their dismay. Instead I am undeniably attracted to the bad boys.

When I was younger my taste was for the goth boys, the tall, dark, and skinny boys who wore lots of black, chains, and nail polish. Extra credit if they also played in a band, and a definite shoe-in if they were the lead singer.

My tastes matured in college to a more mature version of the above; still tall, dark, and skinny, only now they were men, preferably who still played in bands but who ditched the chains and nail polish for a more polished look. Extra credit if they have tattoos and piercings.

Once I was properly single for the first time in my adult life my tastes changed to black men. I think this is partly due to my experiences with white men, which have not been all that favourable (aside: I can hear a black guy I knew once saying that he can’t date black girls because they remind him of his sister). Black men, in my experience, are undeniably masculine, and that is what I want (need?) at this point in my life. I want a man who is a man, who knows he’s a man and who doesn’t deviate from that.

Of course, given my preference for the bad boy type, the inclination towards black men is probably also due to the fact that interracial dating is still considered taboo to many and so what better way to buck the system now that I’ve already brought home the tattooed and pierced goth boys?

I hope this in no way trivializes my attraction to / affection for / love of black men – it’s just an observation on my part.

The ironic thing though is that A is literally the most clean-cut man I’ve dated, ever. Maybe I’ve actually found the best of both worlds?

Image courtesy of strivetwosucceed.wordpress.com

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Body Image 101: I can’t get no satisfaction

Body image is a funny thing. Not in a “haha” sort of way, but more in an ironic way because I can never seem to be really happy with my body, no matter what my size is.

When I was in my teens all I wanted were boobs. I was super skinny and tried a mélange of things to gain weight, some even very unhealthy things. Despite my efforts the most I was able to put on was about 10lbs, bringing my total weight to 130lbs by the end of high school.


130lbs put me at the very low end of a “normal” weight based on my height. I still didn’t have boobs, much to my chagrin, and I hated my body. When I slept with men for the first time my shirt always stayed on because at least I could fake my lack of a chest by wearing a good push-up bra.


I felt like a super awkward stick person. I’ve been told I’m pretty for much of my life, and at times I guess I believed it, but for the most part I did not feel womanly at all.


And I desperately wanted to feel like a woman.


I tried to feel better about myself through self-photography. As a result I have a number of images of myself in various degrees of undress. It helped somewhat – in looking at the images I was able to see what others saw, which wasn’t so bad. As soon as I critiqued myself live in front of a mirror, however I again hated what I saw.

In my mid-twenties my body started to change. I gained weight, switching to the very high end of “normal” and at times was even over “normal” and into “overweight.” I am lucky I guess in that I’m tall so even when I was heavier it wasn’t noticeable. I grew boobs and hips and an ass, all the womanly parts I wanted when I was younger but didn’t have and couldn’t get.


And you know what? I still wasn’t happy. Suddenly I had days where I just felt fat and couldn’t for the life of me find something flattering to wear. I went from one extreme to the next with no stop between to feel satisfied about my body.


I did an informal experiment with Mr. Dreads and Mr. Spice this weekend, both the only men who have seen me nude since my ex (and I couldn’t very well ask him!) I showed them a scale of women’s bodies from underweight to obese and asked them to place me on that scale. I also did the same for myself.

Both men placed me in the middle of average weight. I placed myself at the high end of average, bordering on overweight. Clearly there’s a disconnect here. I know both men love my body, and really I should trust their judgement because they’ve seen more “real” women nude than I have, certainly. Actually, I really shouldn’t care at all what they think, but I do.


Of course I do.


Oh well, here’s to learning to love my body….

– image: me